


straw house straw dog

by lovelilkitty



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, No Fluff, Post-Canon, Reddie, based off the richard siken poem, idk what to do for the tags, no happy ending, sad lol, this is for allie jay and jade for getting me into richard siken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelilkitty/pseuds/lovelilkitty
Summary: “He doesn’t know what makes these days special enough to count. Maybe it’s the straw house that he cannot chase out of his mind. Maybe it’s the boy inside it, who he thinks he loved once, but can no longer place in his mind.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	straw house straw dog

**Author's Note:**

> i read the richard siken poem by the same name and couldn’t get reddie out of my mind so i wrote a self-indulgent post canon one shot.

**i**

_“I watched TV. I had a Coke at the bar. I had four dreams in a row  
where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire.  
I watched TV. I had a Coke at the bar. I had four Cokes,  
four dreams in a row._

_Here you are in the straw house, feeding the straw dog. Here you are  
in the wrong house, feeding the wrong dog. I had a Coke with ice.  
I had four dreams on TV. You have a cold cold smile.  
You were burned, you were about to burn, you’re still on fire._

_Here you are in the straw house, feeding ice to the dog, and you wanted  
an adventure, so I said Have an adventure.  
The straw about to burn, the straw on fire. Here you are on the TV,  
saying_ Watch me, just watch me.”

Richie Tozier was used to getting looked at. The stares didn’t bother him anymore, not like they used to. When he first got into the entertainment industry, there was nothing more unsettling than the way people looked at him. They looked at him, instead of through him. He could feel them _seeing_ him, in a way he hadn’t been seen in a long time, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on when. He had never felt more vulnerable. 

After a while, he stopped writing his own jokes. Putting himself in front of an audience every night, letting them pick him apart over and over, was too much. It didn’t sting as much when a joke that was not his own didn’t land. A laugh from an audience member didn’t mean they knew him, not anymore. He didn’t want to be known. 

It was then that the staring got more bearable. They were looking through him once more, through the empty hole in his chest and the parts of himself that he had once known and now rested on the tip of his tongue, just out of his reach. He was once again unknowable. 

The look he was getting now though, didn’t make him feel unknowable. He raised his eyes to meet the bartender’s, forcing a weak smile before cutting his eyes back down. 

“Coca cola please,” he said, looking up again as he put on his confident Voice. It had been a long time since he’d felt the need to put on a voice ( _thelasttimewaswithhimandnowhesdeadandyoureallalone_ ) but this was not like his voices before. It was not a joking voice; he felt too numb to laugh. It was a confident voice, an I-Am-Doing-Okay voice. The voice was a mask and he was hiding, only he was no longer sure if he was hiding from the bartender or himself.

The bartender held his gaze for a moment longer, before nodding, and turning around to fill up a glass. 

Richie swiveled his stool to face the TV as the bartender slid him his drink, staring at the football game with unseeing, unfocused eyes. 

When he went home that evening he collapsed in his bed, body racking with sobs. 

He didn’t see Eddie until he fell asleep. This was how it always was; his waking hours were spent in a daze, missing someone he couldn’t remember. At night Eddie would visit his dreams, suddenly becoming all Richie could remember. 

Tonight, Richie has dreamt himself in front of a straw house. He cannot see Eddie, not yet, but he knows he is there. 

A smile crosses his face as he steps towards the door, hand poised to knock. He is ready, he thinks, just as he always does. He can take seeing Eddie again, can even handle losing him again when he wakes up. He is sure of it, just as he always is. He is never correct. 

He reaches to knock, when suddenly, he smells smoke. 

This is not the first dream he’s had where he has watched Eddie die, nor will it be the last. 

But this is the first time he cannot see Eddie, cannot hear him, cannot touch him. It is as if he is not there, except he is. Richie can feel it ( _hehastobebecauserichiealreadyhasoneworldwithouteddiehecannotlosethis_ ), he knows it. 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, because maybe if he can’t see the house go up in flames it won’t have happened. After all, this is _his_ dream. Doesn't he get some control?

But he can feel the heat on his face, and after a moment he has to step away, coughing and coughing from the smoke until his lungs feel close to giving out. 

When he looks up the straw house is gone, and with it, Eddie. He wakes up moments later, and does not sleep for the rest of the night. 

The next day follows a similar pattern. Work, pretend you aren’t numb inside. Drive home, sit at your kitchen counter trying to remember what it is that you’ve lost, because you know there’s something missing. At seven o’clock you head to the bar, hand tap-tap-tapping on the steering wheel, in tune to a song you can’t quite remember the name of. There’s a lot you can’t remember, you think to yourself. The thought is fleeting though, as the sadness returns, a massive, crashing tide that knocks you down. You stumble into the bar. Tonight you cannot bring yourself to make eye contact with the bartender who stares into your soul as you order a Coke. You watch the TV game with eyes unseeing. It is not a football Sunday tonight, and the bar is a little less packed. There is a couch available, away from the bartender, away from the noise, but you cannot quite get yourself to move. You feel as if you are watching yourself watch the TV, watching yourself with an unease you can’t quite place. 

_What has become of me_ , you ask. _Is this what I am reduced to without him_ , you ask. But how can you ask that when life before him is a memory just out of your grasp? You shake the thought out of your mind. Stumble home from the bar and try to hold back your tears until at last you are in bed. 

Richie’s life feels like it has become a dream, and his dreams are the only time he is truly awake. 

Tonight he is at the straw house again. He raises his hand to knock again; tonight he does not hesitate like he did before. 

Eddie opens the door, a straw dog at his heels. It yaps at Richie, and Richie stares at it. He does not know what to make of this strange creation. This dog is a stranger to Eddie’s world ( _itsnoteddiesworldanymoreeddiesgoneandrichieisallalonewithadreamandastupidstrawdog_ ). 

Richie spends too long staring at the dog, and when he looks up, the house is on fire once more. He is too late, always too late. He stands there, watching it all go up in smoke. The stupid straw house and the stupid straw dog and Eddie. When he wakes up there are tears on his face, although he doesn’t remember when he started to cry. 

The third day (he doesn’t know what makes these days special enough to count. Maybe it’s the straw house that he cannot chase out of his mind. Maybe it’s the boy inside it, who he thinks he loved once, but can no longer place in his mind), he finds himself back at the bar. The bartender does not ask him what he wants today, just slides him the Coke and mutters that he’ll add it to Richie’s tab. 

Tonight Richie dreams himself in front of a different house. It’s made of wood, and the dog that answers the door is not straw. It’s the wrong house and the wrong dog. It burns anyways. 

**ii**

_“Four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row,  
fall down right there. I wanted to fall down right there but I knew  
you wouldn’t catch me because you’re dead. I swallowed crushed ice  
pretending it was glass and you’re dead. Ashes to ashes._

_You wanted to be cremated so we cremated you and you wanted an adventure  
so I ran and I knew you wouldn’t catch me.  
You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening  
at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.”_

Eddie doesn’t speak until the fourth dream. They are back in the straw house and Richie is sitting at a straw table and Eddie is feeding ice to his straw dog. Richie waits for it to burn down around him. But it doesn’t, and Eddie turns to him, a bright, bright smile on his face. 

“I want an adventure,” he says, and Richie thinks hard. He tries to remember what Eddie enjoyed when he knew him, tries to think about the adventures they had. He can’t remember any. 

He closes his eyes for a moment and then remembers he is running out of time. The world is a timer and the end is near ( _hisworldendedwheneddiediedandhecantwatchithappenagain_ ). He stands up and looks at Eddie, calculating. “Catch me, Eds,” he murmurs, already bolting out the door. 

He can hear Eddie behind him, feet thump thump thumping as he chases Richie. 

Richie knows Eddie will not catch him. He also knows Eddie won’t stop chasing him, not ever. He is learning to adapt to it, to grow used to a world where Eddie is gone in all places except the back of his mind. 

He considers stopping, for a moment. How easy it would be to just let himself be caught. 

As soon as the thought enters his mind, it happens, feet skidding to a halt he doesn't remember enacting. Eddie is still far behind him, and for a moment, he lets himself remember. This is, after all, the only place he is able to. 

He remembers Derry, the small town that he had once bet would begin the end of the world. He remembers his friends, faces and names swimming blurrily behind his eyes.

Mostly, he remembers Eddie. 

He remembers counting each and every freckle on Eddie’s sun-kissed face, remembers the surprised look and the pinkish color that had come to Eddie’s cheeks. He remembers the embarrassment, the playful way he has prodded Eddie’s cheeks and tried to pretend he was messing around. Just like always, just another little joke of his. Eddie had swatted his hand away and they had laughed it off and the knot in Richie’s stomach had unfurled just a little bit. 

He remembers the days spent in Richie’s backyard, just the two of them, lying on their backs and pointing at the clouds. 

He remembers the night that he had snuck into Eddie’s room, how Eddie had grabbed his trembling hands. He hadn’t been sure why he was so shaken, just that he didn’t want to be alone. Eddie hadn’t questioned it, not after he saw the look in Richie’s eyes. 

When Richie has whispered aloud, “Sometimes I think I’m meant to die in this stupid town,” Eddie hadn’t questioned or disputed it it. 

He had nodded and whispered a quiet, “Me too,” and continued to stare at the ceiling. 

After a moment, Richie had grinned weakly, propping himself up on one scrawny elbow as he gazed up at Eddie from his spot on the floor. “Well if we both die here, we can be buried together, eh Spagheds?”

It was morbid, far from his best work, but the nickname made Eddie smile, although he tried to disguise it with a gruff, “Don’t call me that.” After a moment, he spoke again, his voice having returned to the solemnity that the night seemed to call for. “I don’t want to be buried. Especially not here. I’m too sick of being trapped in one place. I want to be cremated. Then the wind can blow me as far away from my mom as I please.”

Richie had cracked a dumb joke about Eddie’s mom, not wanting to think any more about Eddie being dead. Eddie had snapped back and the moment was lost to their bickering.

Now, he let out a humorless laugh. Ironic, that Eddie’s ideal life after death was to become ashes, when Richie couldn’t stop dreaming about that very occurrence. 

**iii**

_“I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,  
couldn’t do it anyway,  
just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made  
any sense, anything._

_And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I  
wake up and you’re still dead, you’re under the table, you’re still feeding  
the damn dog, you’re cutting the room in half.  
Whatever. Feed him whatever. Burn the straw house down”_

When Richie woke up, he found himself unable to move. For an hour he lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

He closed his eyes briefly ( _hewantedtoescapebacktotheworldwherehewasonlyhedidntrememberhisnameorhisfaceoranythingexcepthisdyingwordsandhowcouldhegetbacktosomeonehedidntknow_ ), before blinking them back open. He couldn’t sleep, not quite. 

He called in sick to work- he hadn’t done that in awhile, hadn’t missed work since- since he couldn’t remember. Some trip. He thought maybe it was to visit the boy who wouldn’t leave his dreams, but he wasn’t sure. 

He got up, stumbling into the kitchen. He didn’t know what it was that compelled him to move; he wasn’t hungry, couldn’t even think about eating. 

It hit him the second he walked into the room. A sense of knowing. Eddie was here, he was sure of it. 

He was under the table and the dog was their do, Richie could hear its paws clacking on the tiled floor. 

Eddie was feeding it and it was ok because this was the right dog and the right house for once and then Eddie was in front of Richie and Richie was watching him burn watching it all burn and then-

Richie looked under the table. There was no one there. 

**iv**

_“I don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.  
So, I said, now that we have our dead, what are we going to do with them?  
There’s a black dog and there’s a white dog, depends on which you feed,  
depends on which damn dog you live with.”_

Without work, Richie had nothing to do. He sat in his bed, wrapped in a sweater. He didn’t think it was his, or hadn’t always been. He thought about calling someone, but couldn’t remember the names of anyone who would want to hear his voice. 

He was angry, he decided. Not at the boy in his dreams, it wasn’t his fault he’s dead ( _yourfaultitsyourfaulthesdeadyoudidntsavehim_ ). Not at himself, not really. It wasn’t his fault the boy wouldn’t go away. 

He supposed he was angry at the universe, for bringing him to this place. He was angry at his mind for being so goddamn inescapable. 

Mostly he was just sad. 

**v**

_“Here we are  
in the wrong tunnel, burn O burn, but it’s cold, I have clothes  
all over my body, and it’s raining, it wasn’t supposed to. And there’s snow  
on the TV, a landscape full of snow, falling from the fire-colored sky._

_But thanks, thanks for calling it the blue sky  
You can sleep now, you said. You can sleep now. You said that.  
I had a dream where you said that. Thanks for saying that.  
You weren’t supposed to.”_

Tonight was different. Richie could sense it before he closed his eyes. Maybe because he hadn’t gone to the bar that night, hadn’t sipped on the Coke that he had nursed for the past four nights. 

When he fell asleep he was in an open field of daisies. The sky was blue ( _theskywasbluethedayeddiediedtoo_ ). He was alone. 

He looked around and suddenly panic set in. He wasn’t supposed to be alone. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

And then suddenly, as if he had willed it to be, he wasn’t alone. 

Eddie was there, lying next to Richie with his eyes pointed up, up, up at the clouds. 

_Just like when we were kids._

Richie settled himself down next to Eddie, tensing himself up for the moment it all went wrong, when the grass caught fire or Eddie disappeared. But the grass didn’t catch fire, and Eddie’s hand seemed to be inching closer and closer to Richie’s and he decided maybe it would all be okay. 

He met Eddie’s hand with his, their fingers intertwining, and the sun beat down on his face and he thought maybe this was how it was supposed to be. 

“Richie,” Eddie said, and Richie turned his head, nose brushing against Eddie’s. Eddie’s eyes were a deep brown, flecked with gold, and Richie was certain that they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

“Hm,” he hummed, relishing the feeling of Eddie’s warm breath on his face. 

Eddie leaned it, kissing Richie gently, pulling away as Richie moved to lean in. His eyes were sad, and it was starting to rain, and Richie wondered what had gone wrong. 

“You can sleep now, Rich,” Eddie whispered, and suddenly his cheeks were wet and Richie couldn't tell if he was crying or if it was just the rain. “You can sleep now.”

Richie woke up alone.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twt !! @hcnions


End file.
